Wednesday, December 19, 2018

she is a queen, but she is not my queen

I hate her because she is selfish even outside of her meaningful mind,
she is captivated by her tyrant thoughts, thundering within her brain, you see-
The thoughts are definitely not one of a kind,
And neither is she.
That I am sad is one thing,
that she makes herself ostentatiously unhappy is another,
We have begun to consider ourselves in regard to each other, vain things;
About the lacuna in my heart, isn't she least bothered.
One, two, five and even seven times,
I try to accept what ruthless masses of blood she has become.
Another eleven, twelve and hundred times she breaks my heart,
And then I question my acceptance before it dies.
In the same position; but I know the magnitude of mine is larger,
they say the struggle is real,
Well, losing a part of your own blood is a lot harder,
than being stuck in a looping staircase that's surreal.
Innumerable times have I wanted and wondered and wished,
to tell her the absolute truth about my death that awaits,
in the corners of my house for there lurks,
The wretched remains of my birth-giver's unfathomable fate.